


Lonely For A Living

by Silvials



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24269143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvials/pseuds/Silvials
Summary: After a few minutes, the door opened to reveal a solid wall of muscle. All the words Bucky had prepared suddenly died in his throat, and the first thought that crossed his mind was: this man looked fine as hell for someone in his nineties. Bucky quickly dismissed the thought because the man looked roughly his age, but then he took a good look at the man’s face and realized it was Captain America standing before him. Captain America, who was definitely in his nineties and was definitely fine as hell.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 286





	Lonely For A Living

It’s been a while since Bucky rode the subway.

He had avoided it ever since he got out of the army because the tight space and the press of bodies around him reminded him all too much of the night his unit got pinned under an aftermath of an explosion. He could still feel the sting of his phantom limb every time he walked though a crowded street, so choosing to take the subway when he was just a few weeks out of physical therapy probably wasn’t the best idea. But Bucky had promised to visit Rebecca soon, and there was no other way to get from Brooklyn to Manhattan unless he wanted to get stuck in New York traffic.

The subway was a lot less crowded during this time of the day, but all the seats were already taken by the time Bucky boarded the train. He chose to stand next to the pole closest to the door, but a middle-aged man quickly offered his seat to him. It was something Bucky was still trying to get used to; the idea of being disabled, but he didn’t understand why it should warrant for someone to give up their seat for him. He lost an arm after all, not a leg.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, but he shook his head and gestured for the man to sit back down.

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he dropped the subject once he saw how closed off Bucky’s body language was.

Bucky leaned his head against the pole and closed his eyes as he willed himself into a trance. It was usually the easiest way to keep himself grounded, but the hum of the engine and the motions of the train prevented him from retreating into his headspace.

He opened his eyes with a sigh of defeat and opted to survey his surroundings instead. That was when he spotted a sliver of a book discarded on one of the seats. He automatically assumed it belonged to the girl sitting right next to it, but when the train reached its first stop, she left without reaching for it. Her seat remained vacant for the rest of the ride.

Bucky wasn’t planning to take it, but his curiosity pestered him until he felt compelled to know what was on the seat. He ambled towards it as casually as he could and sat idly for a few moments before reaching for the book.

It turned out to be a leather-bound journal with gilded edges and the initials S.R. carved on the spine. He could tell that it had barely been used judging by the stiffness of the spine, but when he opened it, he found that almost all the pages had been filled with a myriad of sketches. Bucky debated on whether flipping through it would invade the owner’s privacy, but the drawings he’d seen so far felt more impersonal than private. He stole a glance around him to check if anyone was watching, but the people of New York remained blissfully ignorant.

Encouraged by the absence of prying eyes, Bucky skimmed through the rest of the sketchbook until something caught his attention.

It was a rough sketch of Time Square done from the vantage point of a window, and Bucky’s first thoughts was that the artist must be well off enough to afford a high loft in Manhattan. When he flipped to the next page however, he couldn’t help but crease his brows in confusion.

It was a detailed sketch of the interior of an apartment, but it was a far-cry from the loft that Bucky had envisioned. In fact, it looked more like the apartments he’d seen from documentaries about the Great Depression. The couch was the centerpiece of the drawing, although unlike most, focal points of a picture, it was anything but aesthetic. Springs were jutting out from the floral fabric, and some of the linings were torn and frothing with foam. There was a single stove in the corner adjacent to the living room, and the rows of hooks that hung above it had only a frying pan and a wooden spoon. The dining area consisted of a rickety table and two wiry chairs, and behind that was a small window that provided a sprawling view of various clotheslines snaking between two buildings. Overall, the apartment could only be described as ratty, but Bucky couldn’t help but admire how the artist drew every detail with reverence.

The next few drawings were equally intriguing, for they seemed to jump back and forth between two different time periods.

There was a sketch of the Grand Central Station, but the proceeding page had a drawing of a train that looked like it belonged to the World War II era.

There was a before and after sketch of an old-fashioned diner, although Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the same diner or if it was another comparison of the past and present. The artist seemed to love putting mismatched subjects into his drawings, and if Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think the artist lived two different lives. A more logical part of his mind told him that whoever owned the sketchbook was probably in their nineties, but there was also a probability that the person held an intense fascination for the Great Depression.

Bucky felt compelled to meet whoever put the sketchbook together, so when he found an address scribbled onto the last pages, he made it his personal mission to return the book himself.

A few hours later, Bucky found himself standing at a stranger’s doorstep, looking like a complete idiot as he stared blankly at the door. He couldn’t quite decide what the best course of action was. If he were to put himself in the artist’s shoes, he probably wouldn’t appreciate a stranger showing up at his doorstep in the middle of the day. Still, the artist cared about the sketchbook enough to jot down his address on the personal information page, although Bucky found it strange that there wasn’t a contact number to go with it. Maybe the artist wanted to personally thank whoever went through the trouble of returning his sketchbook, or maybe it was all a part of a murderer’s trick to lure people into their apartment.

Some of the passing neighbors were starting to eye him suspiciously. Bucky figured he should probably act quickly before one of them decided to call the police. He planted three knocks on the door without another thought and tried not to fidget when he heard footsteps approaching.

After a few minutes, the door opened to reveal a solid wall of muscle. All the words Bucky had prepared suddenly died in his throat, and the first thought that crossed his mind was: this man looked fine as hell for someone in his nineties. Bucky quickly dismissed the thought because the man looked roughly his age, but then he took a good look at the man’s face and realized it was Captain America standing before him. Captain America, who was definitely in his nineties and was definitely fine as hell. Bucky could feel his brain starting to short-circuit, so drawling out the word “uh” seemed like a good place to start.

“Hi,” Steve Rogers said wryly. His expression was guarded, and his posture was tense, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he regarded Bucky curiously. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, hi,” Bucky returned belatedly. He probably looked like he was having a stroke for all Steve Rogers knew, but thankfully his instincts kicked saved him from saying something embarrassing. “I found this on the subway today. I think it might be yours?”

“I think it might be,” Steve said, mimicking his note of uncertainty like a little shit. The tension visibly drained from his shoulders, and an easy smile eventually replaced the wariness in his expression. “Thank you.”

Their fingers brushed while Steve was reaching for his sketchbook, and the touch sent an unexpected thrill down Bucky’s spine.

“I like your drawings,” Bucky blurted, just as Steve started to apologize for inconveniencing him. They both stared at each other for a moment, but then Steve smiled and indicated for him to continue. “You did?”

Bucky felt himself blush under his scrutiny, and he sincerely hoped that the hallway was dark enough to hide it. “I kinda took the liberty of flipping through it. I really hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Steve assured. “To be honest, I didn’t think anyone would be interested.”

“I was,” Bucky said and gave a nonchalant shrug to deflect his obvious eagerness. “I actually thought you were some kind of time traveler.”

“I must be disappointing you the,” Steve teased, although there was a note of self-depreciation behind his words.

“Not really,” Bucky replied. “I also thought that you were a serial killer who uses his sketchbook as bait to lure people into your apartment.” His statement, coupled with a deadpan expression was enough to make Steve snort.

“How can you be sure I’m not planning to do that now?”

“Well, you haven’t invited me inside yet.”

Back then, Bucky would have balked at the idea of being so forward, but there was something about Steve Rogers that made him feel bolder.

He didn’t actually expect Steve to step aside and let him in. “Be my guest.”

“I don’t think you should be letting strangers into your apartment,” Bucky pointed out, which earned him another laugh from Steve.

“And a while ago, you were the one thinking I was a serial killer, “Steve muttered and held out his hand to Bucky. “I’m Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky blinked at his hand for three solid seconds before realizing it was his cue to take it. “I’m Buck—I mean James Barnes, but most people call me Bucky.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” Steve said with a warm smile. “Since you’re not a stranger anymore, would you like to stay for coffee?”

Bucky felt another blush blooming across his cheeks, but he wasn’t sure if Steve was asking him on a date or simply being polite. “Uh, sure, I don’t have any plans today.”

He followed Steve into his one bedroom loft, which was just as charming as he imagined a Manhattan apartment would be. It had an open concept floor plan, with large glass windows that complemented the grey brick walls. The only downside to it was the mismatch of stainless steel appliances and rustic furniture. It almost seemed like whoever decorated it forgot that Steve was from a different century and decided to include a few antiques to make up for it.

Bucky understood why Steve chose to sketch Great Depression era apartment instead. The Manhattan loft just felt too generic and impersonal, and if Steve weren’t standing here right now, Bucky would think he walked into something straight of a furniture catalog.

“I was actually in the middle of figuring out how to use my coffee maker,” Steve said, snapping Bucky out of his trance. He followed the direction of Steve’s gaze and found a machine that resembled a printer more than anything else.

“Oh, I see what this is about,” he told Steve while squinting at him suspiciously. “You’re just using me to help you make coffee.”

“To be fair, making coffee never used to be this complicated.” Steve pressed one of the buttons to prove his point, but instead of pouring coffee into the cup, the machine only belched out a puff of steam. “See? I think I broke it now.”

Bucky tried a few buttons himself, but the machine only kept making strange whirring noises every time. “That’s…not a normal coffee machine,” he huffed in annoyance. ‘Why would anyone give you something this complicated anyway?”

“Stark is really milking the idea of me being inept in technology,” Steve said in an exasperated tone. “So far, I’ve figured out how to use everything he put in here, but for some reason this coffee maker refuses to cooperate.”

“Maybe he rigged it,” Bucky suggested as he inspected the machine’s control panel. “Or maybe it’s not a coffee machine.”

Twenty minutes and three failed attempts later, they were sitting on the couch drinking two steaming cups of mocha. Bucky originally supposed to take his coffee black, but he discovered a button that added chocolate powder to every shot of espresso. He might have accidentally singed the tips of his fingers in the process of dispensing the chocolate, but the look of satisfaction on Steve’s face when he took a sip of mocha was worth the pain.

“You’re a life-saver.” Steve let out an over-dramatic sigh and slumped against the cushions, completely elated. “First you bring back my sketchbook, and then you introduce me to the best coffee I’ve ever had. How can I repay you?”

“Maybe with your number,” Bucky thought to himself. Steve’s gaze suddenly snapped towards him, and there was an absurd moment when he thought that Steve had the ability to read minds.

Bucky barely managed to stifle a gasp when he realized he had said that out loud. He found himself wishing he could phase through the floor and bury himself in the ground.

Steve’s expression was carefully neutral, which made it even more difficult for Bucky to sense what he was feeling. He swore Steve had flirted with him, but perhaps he just read it all wrong. They were from different centuries after all. Steve’s definition of being friendly might be what Bucky considered to be flirting, and he probably made a fool of himself by asking for Steve’s number.

“Steve, I’m sorry,” Bucky began, but Steve huffed out a laugh before he could continue.

“Okay, I lied,” Steve informed him. ‘I learned how to use every piece of technology in this apartment _except_ for the phone. That’s why my sketchbook didn’t have a number.”

“Oh,” Bucky wheezed, feeling as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“If you really want my number though,” Steve went on and held up silver Iphone. “Maybe you can teach me how to use this.”

“I’d be happy to,” Bucky said and couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from tugging into a giddy smile.

It turns out Steve lied about lying. He already knew the basics of the phone, but he just wanted a reason for Bucky to stay a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on an expensive notebook that I felt guilty for not using. I think it was meant to be something bigger, but I forgot for a few months and now it’s just a oneshot. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your kudos and feedback are very much appreciated!


End file.
